


Remember Us

by Hatterized



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Cancer, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Smut and Some Fluffy Moments, Suicidal Thoughts, This is a sad fic I'm sorry, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-10-28 03:23:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10822722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatterized/pseuds/Hatterized
Summary: Five years ago, Negan lost his wife, Lucille, to cancer. After a dark period in his life, he met Rick Grimes, the second great love of his life, and he's been happier than he ever though he would be again. All of that changes when Rick starts to get sick.8/26- Alternate (happy!) ending added





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Negickapologist is partially to blame for this because she sent me this prompt: "How about an au where Rick gets really sick and Negan actually thinks he's going to die and has to relive his Lucille memories all over again--whether he actually dies or not is up to you!"
> 
> So here's this. In two parts, because it ended up at 16.5k words and that's a lot to read in one go. I apologize in advance. Please note the major character death tag because this is not going to be happy.
> 
> ALSO I know the major character death/suicial thoughts thing is a bit scary so I'll just outright say that they are just thoughts and nothing is followed through on.

Negan never expected to feel this happy again. Maybe that sounds a bit dramatic, but he really didn’t. After Lucille, he went through some shit, understandably. He had phases, but they weren’t the same tired “5 Stages of Grief” that he heard about the one time he’d given in to the pressure from concerned friends and attended a group counseling session for widowers. _Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance_ …if he was honest, he could say that he went through those, too. He just had a fucked-up way of going about it.

First was the phase where he wouldn’t fucking leave his house. In retrospect, he’s thankful as hell to the school he was working at back then, because they were willing to give him the time off he needed during the first month after his wife died. And during that month, that was his depression phase. He would sleep until three in the afternoon like a goddamned teenager on summer vacation, go upwards of a week without showering- and when he did, he’d end up sitting under the stream for an hour or two, watching the water swirl around him as it rolled down his back, knees drawn into his chest. He’d start off as hot as he could stand it, then let it run until icy droplets were raining down on him. It was uncomfortable, but he didn’t mind. It was a nice distraction.

During that month, he only left his house once, when he dragged his weary body to the pantry one afternoon to discover that the only things inside were canned green beans so old that he was pretty sure they were there when he and Lucille bought the house seven years prior. So he made one trip to the grocery store in his grease-stained flannel pajama pants and the pink hoodie that Lucille had gotten him as a joke the time they’d gone to Florida together. If he’d bothered to look in the mirror before he’d left the house, he would have noticed the way his unkempt hair was sticking out in every direction and the exhausted purple circles under his eyes that had become a permanent fixture on his face despite chronic oversleeping. He’d loaded his cart up with microwavable pizzas and canned soups and about a dozen bags of cheese puffs, then topped it all off with multiple bottles of the cheapest wine the store had to offer.

He got a lot of weird looks in the checkout line, but judgy glances from total strangers were the last thing that he was worried about.

If he was going by the official five stages, the bargaining stage came every so often during that phase, on his particularly bad days when he seriously considered taking handful after handful of pills until he didn’t wake up. When he pleaded to a higher power that he’d never believed in to let Lucille come back, to take him instead because he was the one who deserved it.

After he managed to get out of that, there was the anger. It manifested itself as late-night drunken brawls in shitty dive bars that landed his ass in the drunk tank more than once. It showed up in the way he started acting around his friends, bitching at them about their easy lives every time they tried to reach out to them, pushing and pushing until they stopped reaching out altogether. The anger came to an ugly head when he got into it with the principal of the school he was working at. The screaming match started when he’d gotten pulled aside on his way out one afternoon. The man’s concerns had been fair enough: people didn’t generally want their kids being taught by a guy who frequented the police station as much as Negan did. He wasn’t being fired, not yet, but he was being warned to get his act together, seek some help. None of it had been confrontational, nor had it been unwarranted, but it was enough to set him off, anyway.

And, naturally, Negan lost it, shouting and swearing and making a huge scene, complete with him knocking things off of desks and telling the principal to shove his concerns about his drinking where the sun don’t shine. The sweet old ladies working at the front office had looked at him with alarm and something close to fear, and the end result was Negan being, quite understandably, fired.

He hadn’t known what to do after that, but he knew he couldn’t stay. So he sold the house and most of his shit, packed up what was left in Lucille’s red Lexus and left town. He was on the road for a long time, sleeping in motels or the car, living off the money from the house and Lucille’s life insurance. And it was during that time that he slid into a blissful state of denial. And in his denial, his absolute refusal to think about Lucille or the last hellish last year they’d had together as he’d watched her die slowly, he’d started hooking up with people left and right. He missed sex, he didn’t care what happened to him, didn’t care about waking up the next morning, so why shouldn’t he?

It was during that time that he met Rick Grimes.

And, of course, it started with Negan trying to get him to be one of his many hookups, because, _c’mon_ , the guy was hot as hell, nursing a half-full glass of whisky at the end of the shitty dive bar that Negan was prowling that night. He was all southern charm, with that sweet Georgia drawl and long eyelashes framing the bluest eyes Negan had ever seen.

So Negan had sidled up to him, gotten in his space, made some vulgar comment about how good Rick looked and how he’d look even better shoved up against the wall of a bathroom stall with Negan’s cock up his ass.

Shockingly, Negan’s sweet-talk hadn’t worked on him. All he’d gotten from Rick that night was a laugh and a disbelieving look.

But when Rick had showed up again at the same bar the next night, Negan had gotten a bit more. Still not his original proposition of sex in a crummy bathroom stall, but he’d gotten the guy’s number after he’d plopped down on the stool beside him and asked what a pretty thing like him was doing in the same run-down bar two nights in a row.

As it turned out, Rick was there much for the same reason Negan was: to forget about his dead wife and drown some of his sorrows in booze.

And that threw Negan right for a loop. The guy’s immediate honesty was jarring, as was the fact that he was in a similar situation to Negan’s. They’d closed down the bar that night, eventually moving from their barstools to a more secluded booth, drinking and spilling their sob stories over cheap beer. Rick had slipped Negan his number on the way back to their cars once they’d sobered up, asked point-blank if he could see him again.

Negan sure as shit wanted to, and the man’s straightforwardness was charming as hell. So they saw each other again. And their bar dates slowly turned into real ones, which turned into them hooking up.

The first time was in the motel room Negan was staying at after they’d gotten back from the greasy diner they’d spent the last three hours talking in. It hadn’t been anything like the other hook-ups that Negan had engaged in before this, which had been mostly half-drunken fumbles in ill-planned places where both parties were unlikely to know the other’s name. It had been intense, drawn out, like neither of them wanted it to end. They’d stripped each other bare and pressed each other into walls, hands everywhere, mouths everywhere. It had taken them ages just to get onto the bed, and even then they’d gone slower than Negan was used to, fingers working Rick open until they were both breathing hot and heavy. Negan had fucked him into the mattress, Rick’s legs tight around his waist, both of them gasping and groaning and clawing at each other as they came apart together.

Them hooking up became a regular thing, and then it just…progressed. It was small things at first: Negan texting Rick good morning, Rick dropping by the auto shop that Negan had gotten a job at just to bring him lunch and say hello. And then it turned into big things: Negan staying the night at Rick’s place and meeting his kids, Negan finding an apartment nearby and applying to a couple of local schools. He ended up with a job as a gym coach at the school Rick’s son attended. As it turned out, fucking the sheriff’s deputy and active member of the PTA had its advantages. Rick dropped the “boyfriend” bomb by accident two months into their relationship, and Negan, despite teasing him about how high-school it sounded, was over the fucking moon.

Negan had moved in with Rick after a good six months. They were both older, they’d reasoned, they knew that they wanted, so why drag it out? Rick’s daughter, Judith, started calling Negan papa, and Rick’s son, Carl, started calling him Negan instead of ‘asshole’, so they were like one big happy family.

Negan had proposed after a year, and they’d had a small ceremony in Rick’s backyard. That day is tied for the title of ‘happiest day of Negan’s goddamn life’ with the day he married Lucille.

And that’s his life now. He teaches these high-schoolers that he’s come to begrudgingly care about, he comes home to two kids that he’s come to think of as his own, he has the most wonderful husband on the whole goddamn planet in his bed every night. It’s nothing he could have predicted a few short years ago, but it’s more than he could have ever hoped to have again. Lying beside Rick, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps, he’s amazed that he managed to get a second chance like this. He thinks of all the times he came so fucking close to ending it all, and it scares the shit out of him, because the idea of not being here, not being with Rick, not having a family, _this_ family…it’s too much to bear.

* * *

When Rick starts feeling a little sick, neither of them give it too much thought. At first, they write it off as the flu or something, and Rick just takes a few days off work to try to recover. Negan frets over him, making sure he’s comfortable, fluffing pillows and cuddling up with him even when Rick insists that he shouldn’t because “One of us has to take care of the kids, Negan. What are you gonna do when we’re both sick and sleeping half the day away?”

Except Negan doesn’t get sick, and Rick doesn’t get better. After a week of fatigue and barely eating, Negan insists that Rick go to the doctor.

“They have them for a reason, you know. It’s not just in case of emergencies. C’mon, Rick, just go. They’ll give you a couple pills to pop and you’ll be up and running in a couple days. I know you’re up the fucking wall being stuck here all day.”

Rick rolls his eyes. “I’m fine, Negan. Really. I don’t wanna take somethin’ if I don’t have to. I’m startin’ to feel better, I swear. I’ll be good as new tomorrow.”

He isn’t, but he goes to work anyway, despite Negan’s protests.

“I’ll be fine.” He says as he’s pulling on his uniform.

“I’ll stick to desk work, God knows the Sheriff could use somebody who wants to do that shit.” He says as Negan kisses him goodbye.

And it’s later that day that Negan gets a call from Shane, Rick’s partner. He’s sitting at his desk in the tiny office attached to the school gym, trying to draw up a lesson plan for the next month, when his cell buzzes. He’s surprised to see that it’s Shane, who he rarely talks to outside of when he’s hanging out with Rick. Cold fear immediately grips him. No, no. Nothing’s wrong. Surely nothing’s wrong. Shane wouldn’t be telling him something was wrong through a phone call, right? He knows where Negan works, surely he’d come tell him in person, especially since Carl is here, too. He swallows down the swell of irrational fear and picks it up.

“Hello?”

“Negan. I, uh. Can you…can you come get Rick? He’s not doing to hot right now. I’d do it myself, but we’re fucking swamped over here today.”

The tight feeling in Negan’s chest loosens a bit. Rick’s still just dealing with the flu. He’s fine. Relatively speaking.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll be right there. He okay?”

“I know he’s been sick. I can hear him puking right now. He’ll be fine. Probably more pissed that he’s puking his guts out at work than anything else.”

Negan smiles fondly at that and hangs up, grabs his jacket off the back of his chair and heads out to his car, dropping by the front office to let them know where he’s going. They don’t mind. His last class was over an hour ago, he was just pushing paper around and waiting for school to be over so he could give Carl a lift home anyway.

When he gets to the station, Shane jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom, and Negan goes inside to immediately hear the jarring, throaty sounds of Rick retching into the toilet.

“Rick? Babe, I’m gonna take you home, alright?” He raps on the stall with his knuckles, and after a moment Rick unlocks it. Negan’s eyes go wide as he takes in Rick’s appearance: his eyes are sunken in dark sockets, his skin drained of color. He’s shaky and sweating, his curly hair clinging to his neck and forehead.

There’s blood on his lips, and the mess in the toilet is tinted red. The fear from earlier curls around Negan’s chest again, making it hard to breathe for a second. This…may not be the flu.

“Negan,” Rick rasps, “Hey. Sorry. I…I really thought I was getting better.”

Negan drops down beside him and shakes his head, pushing damp curls off of his husband’s forehead and shushing him. “It’s okay, Rick. It’s fine, I don’t mind. But…I think it’s time you got see a doctor, alright? Please?” He can hear the fear creeping into his voice, and he tries to shove it back down his throat. Rick gives him a shaky smile and nods.

“Yeah, alright. Since you asked so nicely.”

Negan returns his smile weakly. “Atta boy. C’mon.” He helps Rick up to his feet and leads him out to the car, arm around his waist.

* * *

When they get to the doctor’s office, Rick nearly falls asleep on Negan’s shoulder. They sit in the waiting room for a half hour before they’re called back, Negan anxiously tapping his feet on the nubby carpeted floor. Rick lets Negan come with him, lets him hover as the nurses weigh him and check his vitals. Negan watches with nervous scrutiny as the Doctor looks Rick over, says he doesn’t have the flu. He wants to take blood, run some tests, he says.

Negan’s blood runs cold.

“Why? What kind of tests do you need to run on him? He’s…he’s got pneumonia or some shit, right? Bronchitis? He was coughing up blood earlier today. Just- just give us something that will fix him up and we’ll be outta your fucking hair.”

“Negan,” Rick scolds, looking embarrassed.

The doctor- H. Carson, as it says on his name tag- shakes his head, ever patient. “It’s not bronchitis. It could be pneumonia, but we have to do an x-ray to check for that.”

So they wait again. Rick turns to Negan.

“You didn’t need to yell at the doctor, you know,” He chides.

Negan pulls Rick close, kisses his temple, sighs. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I…I don’t like doctors. I don’t like hearing that ‘we need to run some tests’. It scares the shit outta me.”

Rick’s eyes go wide, his voice apologetic. “Oh, Negan, I didn’t think about…shit, I’m sorry.” He sighs. “I should’ve gotten it checked out when you told me to. I could’ve been all fixed up by now. I’m sorry.”

Negan shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m just overreacting. Got fuckin’ trauma or some shit.”

Rick laughs, which turns into a painful-sounding cough that grinds against Negan’s bones.

Negan is a pacing, nervous mess as Rick is getting x-rayed. He’s a pacing, nervous mess when Rick gets out and they wait for the results.

“Negan, seriously, you’re makin’ me anxious. Sit down. It’s gonna be fine.” Rick catches his hand and pulls him into the cramped waiting room seat beside him, intertwining their fingers. Negan breathes.

They’re called back again what feels like hours later, though Rick insists it hasn’t actually been _that_ long. They sit side by side in different chairs in a tiny exam room that’s painted a nauseating shade of yellow that makes Negan feel itchy and claustrophobic. He’s about to get up and start pacing the room again when Doctor Carson enters.

“It’s not pneumonia. Your chest x ray…there looks like there may be something there. We can’t say for sure, not yet, but you need to get a CT scan…”

Carson is still talking, but Negan’s not hearing anything anymore. He’s looking at the man, but he’s not there. He’s looking through him, and he seems to be moving in slow motion. No. No, this isn’t happening. This is some kind of cruel, sick joke. He can taste bile in his throat, burning and rising up. He still can’t hear anything the doctor is saying. What the fuck is he saying?

“Negan.” Rick’s voice cuts through the haze like a knife, sharp and to the point. He looks Negan in the eye as sees the fear there. It’s mirrored in his own.

Rick has to be the one to get the necessary information from the doctors. Negan just stands there beside him as they’re getting ready to leave, vaguely aware of Doctor Carson telling him that it’s too soon to tell what it is, just go to the hospital get the CT scan, and go from there. Rick is young and healthy, there’s no reason to assume the worst.

Negan assumes the worst anyway. He climbs into the passenger side of the car at Rick’s insistence. Rick is on the phone with Carol, their next-door neighbor, explaining the situation and asking if she can pick up Carl and Judith from school today and keep them until they get home.

Negan knows he should be the one making the call. He should be the one driving, the one comforting Rick and telling him that it’s nothing. But he can’t. He just fucking can’t, so Rick does it. It makes him feel disgusted with himself.

“They said it’s too early to tell. We’ll know more after the CT scan and the bloodwork. It could be nothing, Negan.”

All Negan can think of is Rick, hunched over on the floor of the police station bathroom, looking frail and sickly, the blood on his lips.

It’s not nothing. He knows it’s not.

* * *

He fucking hates hospitals. He hates them more than he hates the asshole helicopter parents of the kids he teaches, more than drivers who go five miles under the speed limit on one-lane roads, more than the Braves’ shitty chances at the World Series and fucking kale and every other shitty thing he can think of. He never wants to set foot in another hospital in his whole goddamn life, but here he is. Again. It’s like a horrible Groundog Day nightmare, him sitting in the waiting room with his dick in his hand, helpless and scared out of his goddamn mind as the man he loves is having tests run on him.

His breathing comes short and panicked, and he can’t seem to control it. The air around him feels stale and frigid and prickles at his skin, needling him. The antiseptic hospital smell makes his stomach flip over unpleasantly, and if he closes his eyes he can swear that he’s back in time five years, like nothing has changed. Like it’s Lucille behind those swinging doors, being scanned and poked and prodded until some unlucky fuck in a white coat comes out to deliver the news that will shatter Negan’s whole world like a broken mirror.

No. No, this isn’t happening again. Rick is fine. He’s fine. The doctor will come ambling out and tell him that this has all been some elaborate mix-up, that Rick’s just got a cold and Negan should take him straight home and fix him up with a bowl of chicken noodle soup and some cough suppressants.

And he will. He’ll take that beautiful man home and carry him over the threshold like they’re newlyweds again. He’ll take a few days off work, nurse him through the cold, bundle him in blankets and make him soup watch Ghostbusters with him on the couch until he’s better. All the doctor has to do is walk out and tell him. Tell him it’s fine.

The doctor comes out to collect Negan nearly an hour later. Negan follows him down the sterile halls to an office where Rick is sitting, pale and haggard-looking, but strong. He’s so strong, Negan tells himself. He can’t look at the doctor, can’t think about why he’s back here. All he can see is Rick, reaching for his hand, drawing him down into the leather-padded seat beside him. He doesn’t take his eyes off of him.

Rick asks the question for him. Asks what’s going on, what’s wrong with his body, what they’ve found. Negan listens, watches Rick’s lips move. Waits to hear the words, _“Oh, everything’s fine, you’re fine, you can leave, this has all been a huge misunderstanding.”_

Those words don’t come.

Instead, he hears the words, “Lung Adenocarcinoma”. Hears, “Stage four,” “Not recommended we operate at this point,” “Chemotherapy is an option, but we’re in the end stages here.”

And then Negan can’t hear anything at all expect for the rush of blood in his ears, so loud that it’s taking over his senses, blurring his vision. The frigid room now seems boiling, and the earlier twisting in his stomach has given way to full-blown nausea. He half-falls out of his chair, lurching out of the sweltering office, not registering the two other people in the room with him, not registering the potted plant he knocks over on his way out the door and into the hall.

Out. He has to get out. None of this is real, none of it. He’s had this nightmare before, he just has to get out of this fucking hospital, has to wake up. Everything will be fine if he just wakes up. His legs give out and he slides down against the wall outside the office. His stomach turns over again and this time he can’t hold it back, heaves onto the white tiled floor. A young nurse strolling by gives a groan of displeasure that he doesn’t hear.

 _Wake up, wake up, fucking wake up_ -

“Negan.”

His head jerks up suddenly, Rick’s tired face flooding his vision. He reaches up, strokes his cheek. “We have to get out of here, baby,” He says, his voice smaller and more far away than he knew was possible, “We have to get the fuck out of here.” His voice breaks on the last syllable, and then he’s sobbing. He hasn’t felt this broken in five years, and it’s unbearable, the pressure in his chest, the weight of the sobs ripping out of him violently, like he’s a wounded animal. Rick pulls him to his chest and Negan buries his face into his shirt, breathing in deep lungfuls of his scent, wanting to drown out the sterile smell of the hospital and acrid scent his own vomit. He knots his fingers into the back of Rick’s shirt, wanting to pull him closer. His whole world consists of Rick’s arms around him, rubbing up and down his back in calming circles, Rick’s lips pressing against the top of his head, breathing out soothing breaths, Rick’s heartbeat, so loud against his ear.

They sit in the hall like that for a while, their grip on each other tight, even when the doctor suggests that they move back into the office. Negan wants to tell him to go straight to hell, to say a good _fuck you_ to the devil while he’s there. Rick speaks instead, thankfully, tells him to give them a minute.

Rick holds Negan’s hands in his when they manage to get back into the office. The doctor lays out their options, tells them what they need to know, suggests a couple of local support groups for both patients and their spouses. Rick does the talking. He’s strong. Negan says nothing. He can’t.

They have to run more tests, do more bloodwork, see just how far it’s spread, the doctor says. They’ll send them results of everything within the next week or two.

But it’s bad. No matter how they slice it, it’s stage four cancer, and it’s a fucking bitch. Negan knows what it all means. He’s heard it all before. The words sound like someone pressed rewind on his life, and he’s hearing Lucille’s diagnosis all over again. Stage four. Inoperable. Rick can give chemo a go, try to extend his life a bit, but…

But it’s a death sentence. It’s not a matter of _if_ Rick will survive this, it’s a matter of how long he has left.

Negan can’t breathe. His head is buried in his hands and he’s sobbing again- big, fat tears leaking out of him like an old faucet. He knows, somewhere deep down in that prideful place inside him that he should be facing this with a little more dignity, at least while he’s in public, but he can’t. The second love of his life has just been handed the same death sentence as his first, and he feels like the sobbing isn’t nearly enough. He feels like he could cry endlessly for days, weeks, months, and it wouldn’t be enough to get it all out. He wants so badly to start screaming, start punching holes in the nicely painted green walls of this disgusting office, to put his fists through them until he’s bleeding and broken and he finally wakes up from whatever hellscape he’s living in. If he keeps his eyes closed, maybe it’s not real, he thinks. He’s suddenly a child again, hiding behind his hands and thinking that the world disappears if he can’t see it. The only thing grounding him to reality, to this life, is Rick’s warm hand on his back. If it leaves, he doesn’t know what he’ll do, where he’ll end up.

Rick puts on a brave face. Nods, takes all the papers and pamphlets the doctor give him, sets up a follow-up appointment so they can talk chemotherapy. He puts his arm around Negan, helps him out of the chair, apologizes to the janitor that’s mopping up Negan’s misery-induced mess in the hallway as they’re on their way out.

It’s once they’re in the car that he loses it, too. Negan is curled in on himself in the passenger seat, watching him through tear-blurred eyes. Rick grips the steering wheel even though the car is still off. His knuckles are white, arms shaking. Negan watches his face crumple like tissue paper, watches as the sobs wrack his body, as the tears fall down his face and into his beard, as his hair falls in his face and his arms go limp and snot oozes.

“Fuck. _Fuck!_ ” He screams the word over and over again, and Negan’s never seen him like this before, never seen him so scared. He’s hitting the edges of the steering wheel and his fist slips and the car horn blares, startling a couple of people walking through the parking garage. Negan musters every ounce of strength he has to pull Rick to him, until they’re clutching at each other, a tangle of quivering, crying bodies jammed uncomfortably against the center console.

There aren’t any words to make this better. They both know what the other is feeling, but neither of them can say anything to lighten the load.

“What the fuck are we going to do, Negan? The kids…I was supposed to…fuck!” Rick swears into Negan’s soaked shirt. “I was supposed to be there for them. Carl…Carl’s already lost his mother, and now…” He’s shaking so hard that Negan’s scared he’s going to start hyperventilating.

“I know.” Negan’s voice is cracked, broken. Pain oozes from it like blood from a wound.

“And you,” Rick whispers, “You…you already lost Lucille like this…I can’t imagine… _fuck_ , Negan.”

Negan buries his face into Rick’s hair, cries into it.

* * *

Telling the kids is horrible. How could it not be? Judith doesn’t understand at first, because she’s only five years old and she shouldn’t have to. They don’t tell her everything, just say that daddy’s sick and that he’s going to be at the doctor’s a lot. Carl is silent, doesn’t ask the hard questions until Rick puts Judith down for a nap. He’s protecting Judith, even now. Negan wishes he had half the kid’s strength.

“How bad is it? Are you…?” He looks at Rick, his face tight.

They tell him the diagnosis. The prognosis. Six to eight months.

Negan expects anger. From what Rick told him, that’s how he dealt with Lori’s death a lot. He expects yelling and swearing and hot, angry tears.

What they get instead is silence. A weak nod. The gesture is so small and defeated that it makes Negan want to start crying all over again.

Once again, Rick is the strong one, pulling Carl into his arms and resting his cheek against the top of his head. Carl just stands there stiffly for a long minute, arms tense at his sides, before the tears start. He wraps his arms around Rick and cries into his dad’s shirt like he’s seven years old again, and Negan has to look away. The kid’s sixteen. Sixteen, and he’s losing a second parent. He deserves better than this shit.

Rick falls asleep quickly that night, Negan’s arms tight around him. It’s been a long day, after all. Negan, on the other hand, lies awake beside him for hours. He holds his palm flat against Rick’s chest, feeling his heart beating, and he can’t bring himself to pull it away. He’s terrified that if he does, he won’t ever feel it again.

It hits him around five am that Rick’s concern all day has been comforting him and the kids. When he cried, it was for them, for their pain, for what they felt. He had to baby Negan through everything at the doctor, as if Negan was the one who’s sick. Negan wishes he was. Rick, his kids? They deserve more than a shitty ending like this. Rick deserves to grow old and watch his kids grow up, watch Carl graduate and get married, help Judith through her teenage years. In the face of his own mortality, Rick’s first thoughts are of other people, because that’s the kind of man he is. He’s everything Negan can’t be: kind, considerate, patient, gentle…good. He’s just good, to his core, so good it makes Negan ache.

And that’s all Negan can think about now: how fucking cruel and unfair life is, that Rick Grimes is the one who ends up dying like this while he gets to live.

* * *

Negan and Rick spend a lot of time driving back and forth to the oncologist for the next few weeks, discussing treatment options and running further tests on Rick. Constant screenings, checking to see how aggressive the cancer is, how much it’s spread.

The answer? Very, and a lot.

When Rick starts chemotherapy, Negan has flashbacks to Lucille again. How sick it made her, how afterwards, when Negan had driven them back home, she would spend the rest of the day in bed or hunched over the toilet, heaving until she couldn’t anymore. He remembers holding back her dark hair and thinking that this had better be fucking worth it, that it had better make a goddamn difference, if it was making her feel even worse.

The first time, when they’re getting ready to leave for the appointment, Carl walks into their room, hovers in the doorway.

“You change your mind?” Negan asks. Rick had asked Carl a couple days ago if he wanted to come, said they’d call Carol to ask if she could keep Judith. Carl had bitten his lip, looked conflicted. Negan hadn’t immediately been able to tell what he was thinking, but Rick could.

“You don’t have to, Carl. It’s okay if you don’t want to, or- or aren’t ready to.” Rick’s voice had been gentle, comforting. He saw the torn look on his son’s face and was able to read it like an open book: _I want to go to show you that I care, but I’m not ready to see you like that, not yet._

“I- I don’t want you to think…” Carl had swallowed hard as he met his father’s eyes, and Negan caught the barest glimpse of the turmoil there, and he felt rage bubble up in him again, fury that the world decided it was somehow fitting to take both of this kid’s parents from him while he was still so young.

Rick saw that look, too, and had immediately surged forward to pull Carl into his arms.

“Carl. I know. I know.” He’d kissed the top of his son’s head, stepped back to look him in the eyes, hands on his shoulders. “Thank you for watching Judith. There will be other times. You don’t have to go.”

He doesn’t, and Negan is grateful for that. The actual treatment isn’t bad. He and Rick talk, both of them forcibly keeping the conversation light, each trying to protect the other from getting sucked out of their conversation and back into the reality of the situation. Negan’s glad for it, for Rick’s playful, easy teasing as they sit close together, ignoring the IV in Rick’s arm. They talk like it’s a normal day, like they did back when Rick spent his days at the police station and Negan would drop by for lunch. They discuss what Negan’s going to make for dinner later that night, who’s going to get saddled with taking Judith to see the latest animated musical movie, how Carl’s going to fare when he tries out for the school baseball team in the spring. It’s late winter now and for a minute they’re laughing and smiling and Negan is almost able to forget that this will probably be the only season that Rick will get to see Carl play.

And then it just kind of hits him all at once, and his face crumbles and Rick sees it instantly and tries to steer the skip back to safety before the waterworks start.

“Negan. Hey,” Rick reaches out and rubs his forearm, thumb tracing over the tattoo on the inside of it, “Don’t. Don’t think about it. Not right now, please, if you- if you start, I’m not going to be able to get through this. Please, baby.”

Negan hates himself in that moment, hates that Rick has to ask him, has to plead him to keep his shit together.

It was the same way with Lucille, he thinks. He remembers a moment a few months into her diagnosis. She’d already lost her hair from the chemo and had taken to wearing a red bandana over her bare head when they went out. They’d gone to the park and were sitting on a bench together, just people watching and enjoying the nice weather. She’d been feeding some of the pigeons and he had just looked over at her and thought “I’m never gonna be able to look at a damn pigeon again” and started crying right then and there, face buried in his hands as people walked past. She’d looked pained and told him to _stop, not here, you’re making a scene_.

And now, once again, he’s making things harder on the person he loved. He squeezes his eyes closed and fights back the burning behind his eyelids and swallows roughly, concentrating on the soft brush of Rick’s fingers against the skin of his arm. When he opens his eyes again, he smiles at Rick, small and weak, but he manages it. He grabs the remote off the table beside Rick’s bed and flicks on the wall-mounted tv.

“Wanna watch Gordon Ramsay rip some incompetent fuckers a new one?”

* * *

Rick is fine until they get to the car. The nurse that had come back to remove his IV warned of some fatigue and nausea, but Rick walked out of the hospital like it was nothing. It’s about halfway home that he makes a small noise of discomfort and Negan glances over to see him looking positively green.

“Shit. Hold on, baby.” One hand on the wheel, he reaches behind him to grope through the seat pocket and produces a plastic grocery bag, which he hands to Rick. “I try to keep one or two in here, just in case, after that time Carl got food poisoning.”

Rick manages to not hurl into the bag, mostly because about ten minutes from home he conks straight out, sprawled in the passenger seat, his head resting against the glass of the window. Negan, being mindful not to wake him, tentatively reaches over and wraps his fingers around Rick’s wrist, thumb over his pulse. It steadies him, keeps him sane, until he pulls into the driveway.

Rick is still half-asleep in the passenger seat. Negan reaches over and unbuckles him, walks around the car and lifts him out of the car, carrying him into the house. Carl catches sight of them as they walk upstairs, and Negan sees the pinched, trying-not-to-look-worried expression on his face when he sees Rick.

“Hey, kid. He’s fine. Chemo just wipes you out. I fucking promise you, he’s okay.” Carl nods, his face relaxing a bit. “I’ll come tell you how it went in a minute, okay?” He wants to say that it wasn’t a big deal, put the poor kid’s mind at ease a bit, but he can’t bring himself to lie like that. Carl wouldn’t believe him, anyway. He’s too smart for that.

Negan carries Rick into their bedroom and tucks him into bed, grabbing the trash can out of their bathroom and setting it on the floor beside him, just in case the nausea hits when he wakes up. He smiles sadly down at Rick, who’s already settling back into sleep. He leans down and presses a long kiss to his forehead, and when he goes to pull back, Rick surprises him by catching his wrist.

“Stay. Stay with me.” Negan’s heart melts into a puddle in his ribcage, and he cups the side of Rick’s face. He wants nothing more than to curl up next to Rick and take a long nap himself, but he needs to check on Carl and Judith first. He knows that Rick wouldn’t be happy if he woke up to Negan neglecting their kids.

“I’m gonna be right back, baby. Right back, I promise. I gotta go check on the kids first, okay?”

Rick nods sleepily, eyes fluttering closed again. “Yeah. Yeah, go check on ‘em. Come right back.”

Judith is napping on the couch when Negan wanders back downstairs. She’s clutching the stuffed rabbit that she always carries around, her knees drawn up to her chest. Carl’s already covered her with a blanket, made sure she’s warm. Negan’s throat feels thick looking at her, so young and innocent, with no way to grasp what she’s going to lose all too soon.

“How’d it go?” Negan turns to see Carl, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall. Negan ambles into the kitchen and pulls a beer out of the fridge, cracking it open.

“I’m not gonna lie to you, kid. It’s not fucking fun. It’s not…it’s not even that he’s in pain or anything, it’s nothing like that. It’s just…it’s damn hard to be there. Knowing why you’re there. Trying to talk like it’s just a normal Sunday afternoon and then you glance over and there’s an iv in his arm.”

Carl clenches his jaw, stares at the floor. Negan takes a long swig of the beer.

“I want to go next time. I should have gone this time. I should have-” His voice cracks a little, and then Negan’s setting the bottle on the counter and pulling Carl into his arms, hand on the back of his head. He’s pretty sure he can count the number of times him and Carl have hugged on one hand. He and Carl have a good relationship, but teenage boys aren’t usually the most open with affection, especially with their slightly-obnoxious-at-times stepparents. But the kid really fucking needs it right now, and it’s a testament to just how much he needs it that he doesn’t pull away after a second. They stand there for a minute, both of them trying to take deep, calming breaths so that the other won’t see them cry.

Carl steps back after a minute, eyes red-rimmed but dry. Negan finishes his beer.

“Do not fucking beat yourself up over not going today, kid. I mean it. I understand, your dad understands. Nobody thinks less of you for it. We appreciate you watching Judith.” Carl nods, looking a little uncomfortable with all this talk of feelings, and Negan decides it’s time to cut this conversation off. “I’m gonna go look after your dad for a bit, alright? You come get me if you need anything, or if Judith wakes up.” He squeezes Carl’s shoulder as he leaves.

Back in the bedroom, Negan kicks off his shoes and crawls into bed beside Rick, sliding as close to him as possible. He nuzzles into the back of his neck, kisses the warm skin there. He feels Rick shift a little against him, pressing his body flush against Negan’s.

“Are Carl and Judith alright?” His words are sleep-slurred and soft.

“Yeah, they’re okay. Judith’s napping. Told Carl to come get me if they need anything. Go back to sleep, babe.”

Rick makes a sleepy noise of affirmation and Negan feels him relax against his chest, his breaths getting slower and deeper. Negan consciously takes breaths to match his, breathing in sync with Rick until he falls asleep against him.

* * *

Carl comes with them the next time. He puts on a brave face, and Negan mostly sits back and watches Rick and Carl interact, watches how Rick can’t tear his eyes away from his son, looks at him like he’s trying to memorize every little thing about him. Negan has to step out of the room for a minute so he doesn't start with the waterworks for the millionth goddamned time, and when returns a handful of minutes later with a bag of chips for Carl and a can of Sprite for Rick, Carl is showing Rick a game on his phone where you kill zombies by swiping the screen. Rick is tapping away furiously, eyes narrowed and tongue between his teeth, and Carl is grinning, and Negan pulls his own phone out of his pocket and quietly snaps a picture of them.

* * *

Rick doesn’t get too nauseous until a few sessions in. He’s usually just tired after, and Negan’s gotten into the habit of carrying him to bed and taking a short nap with him afterwards.

One time, Negan wakes up to the sound of Rick retching over the side of the bed. He’s pitching dangerously over the edge, and Negan has to grab his hip to keep him from tumbling to the floor.

“C’mon, baby. Let me help you up, there you go.” Negan manages to get an arm under Rick’s shoulders to start walking him to the bathroom.

They take a few steps, Rick’s legs weak and shaky, before he mumbles “Oh, God,” helplessly and his knees crumple under him and he throws up all over himself and Negan. Ignoring the vomit splattered onto his clothes, Negan scoops Rick into his arms and carries him the rest of the way, setting him in front of the toilet where he heaves again. Negan rubs his back in slow, calming circles, pushes sweaty strands of hair off his forehead.

When the nausea seems to pass, Rick flushes the toilet and sits back on his heels, head bowed, not looking Negan in the eye. He’s still splattered with vomit, and Negan moves close to him, tugs off his shirt and undoes his pants, helps him into the shower, leaves the curtain back for a moment so he can join him. He’s pulling his shirt off when everything happens at once. A second wave of nausea washes over Rick and he’s dry heaving painfully, hunched over on the shower floor, rivulets of water streaming down his back. Carl appears in the doorway, says something about Judith being hungry that Negan only half-hears over the sounds of the shower and Rick gagging, and Carl’s eyes widen as he takes in the scene before him: vomit on the floor leading to the bathroom and down Negan’s front, Rick shaking and on his knees in the shower.

“Just give me a damn second, kid,” Negan snaps, a little too sharply. Fuck, he’s stressed, everything’s all wrong, and he can’t take care of everyone at once. It makes him feel horrible, helpless, but he just can’t do it all.

“I- sorry. I’ll make some mac and cheese.” Carl says, dodging Negan’s eyes and quickly retreating, and it makes Negan feel even worse knowing that he took his frustration out on Carl. The kid didn’t need to see any of this, and he definitely didn’t need Negan snapping at him because _Judith was fucking hungry_. He scrubs a hand over his face, forcing back the guilt. There’s no room for that right now. He has to take care of his family.

He closes the door, strips off the rest of his clothes, and gets in the shower with Rick, washing them both up quickly and massaging the tension out of Rick’s bowed shoulders with soapy fingers. Rick won’t look at him, and he knows why, but the kids are downstairs without dinner and there’s no time right now to help patch up Rick’s wounded pride. So he just peppers chaste kisses to Rick’s skin as he dries him off, murmurs that _it’s okay, everything’s okay, you’re okay_ as he helps him into clean clothes. It’s then that he notices that the mess on the bedroom floor is gone.

Guilt grips him again. _Carl._

He tucks Rick back into bed and goes downstairs to see Carl in the kitchen, a pot of Kraft mac and cheese boiling on the stove. Judith is sitting on the couch in the living room, her hunger temporarily distracted by Tangled playing on the tv.

“Carl,” Negan says, heart aching. The kid doesn’t look mad about being snapped at, just… completely despondent. “I’m sorry, Carl. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I wasn’t mad, it was just bad timing. I’m sorry…I’m fucking sorry you had to see that. You didn’t need to clean that up. I was going to get it.”

Carl’s attention is focused on stirring the pot of noodles. “It’s fine. I know.”

“Kid. _Carl_. Look at me.” Carl stops stirring, hesitates, and then meets Negan’s eyes. “I’m sorry. You don’t need more shit in your life than you already have, and you shouldn’t have to see your dad going through this, shouldn’t have to take care of things around here. I appreciate the fuck out of you for stepping up like you have.”

Negan can see the pain in his eyes, that same barely-keeping-his-shit-together look that he sees reflected in the mirror back at him every day, and it makes him unbearably sad to know that this sixteen year old kid already has that same haunted look that he does. “Go take a load off, kid. Play some violent video games or talk to your girlfriend or something, I don’t know. Act like a kid, at least for a little bit,” He takes the long plastic spoon Carl’s using to stir the pasta with from his hand, “I’ve got this.”

Carl retreats up to his room, thankfully, and Negan finishes up dinner, bringing a plate up to him and then joining Judith in the living room. They sit on the couch together, eating bowls of mac and cheese, the dark room illuminated by the tv screen. Judith is enthralled by the movie, even though she’s watched it nearly a hundred times before. Negan’s seen it all the way through at least a dozen times himself, but it’s the first time he finds himself crying silently when a dying Flynn Ryder whispers, “You were my new dream” to a teary-eyed Rapunzel. The tears flow freely and they won’t seem to stop, not even when the credits roll and Judith turns to him, eyes wide. She reaches up to touch his face, tiny fingers patting at his unkempt beard.

“What’s wrong, papa?” Her voice wavers, and Negan realizes that if he doesn’t rein it in, he’s going to upset her, too. He wipes at his eyes, takes a shaky breath, and puts on a warm smile for her, stroking her blonde curls.

“Nothing, angel. The movie just made papa a little sad, that’s all.”

He sets Judith up with some toys in her room and goes to check on Rick. He’s surprised to find him sitting up on the edge of the bed, fingers toying with the hem of his boxers. Negan sits beside him, and when Rick doesn’t look up at him, he knows it’s time to do damage control from earlier.

“Carl and Judith are all fed and taken care of.”

Rick nods, a single bob of his head. “Good.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” He doesn’t have to say what about. Rick knows.

“I hate feeling like this. Being like this.”

“Sick?”

“ _Helpless_.” Rick spits the word with disdain.

“You’re not fucking helpless, Rick. You’re sick. We’re a family, we take care of each other. I know you’re not used to letting someone else hold the reins, but sometimes you have to.”

Rick is silent for a long minute before he speaks again.

“I don’t…I don’t want Carl seeing me like that. I don’t want him to worry more than he already does.” Rick sounds so broken that Negan can’t help but pull him into his arms, hands smoothing over his hair as Rick’s come to knot in the back of his shirt. “He shouldn’t have to deal with any of this,” Rick whispers.

Negan’s voice is thick against Rick’s shoulder. “I know. But we can't protect him from what's going on forever.”


	2. Chapter 2

A few weeks into chemo, Negan steps into the bathroom one morning to find Rick already awake and standing in front of the mirror. He’s shower-damp and fresh-smelling with a towel around his waist, and he’s staring down at the counter. Negan follows his gaze to see a small clump of dark hair sitting beside the sink. He isn’t sure what to say.

“I combed my hair and that happened.” Rick’s voice is tight, like he’s barely keeping a hold on himself. Negan holds his breath, waiting. He’d been wondering when the other shoe was going to drop for Rick. As amazingly unselfish as his husband is, Negan knows that there’s only so much a person can take. Rick has cancer, for fuck’s sake, and the only concern he’s shown so far has been for Negan and his kids. It’s about time he showed some for himself.

But Rick keeps a lid on it all and just keeps staring at the wad of hair. Negan gives a few moments before he grabs it off the counter and tosses it in the trashcan beside the sink. Rick’s head jerks up to him. “What-?”

“Don’t dwell on it. Don’t.”

Rick’s jaw clenches and unclenches rhythmically. “I’m gonna go bald.”

Negan slides his hand around the back of Rick’s neck and presses their foreheads together. “I’ll get you a fucking bandana. A whole fuckton of bandanas. One for every day of the week. I’ll let Judith help pick them. You’ll be wearing rainbows and kittens every other day. It'll be cute as fuck.”

Rick gives a shaky laugh, and Negan can feel his breath on his own lips. “You still gonna think I’m sexy like that?” His words are teasing, but Negan can hear the weight of worry and insecurity behind them. He pulls Rick in for a slow kiss, their mouths moving against each other, tongues sweeping over lower lips. When Negan pulls back, Rick’s face is tinged pink with blush.

“What kind of dumb fucking question is that, Rick? My dick is still gonna be craving you, hair or not. If you want, we can get matching bandanas.”

Rick smiles, sweet and genuine like it so rarely is lately, and Negan can’t help but kiss him again.

* * *

Rick catches Negan’s wrist as they climb the stairs to bed that night, and Negan whirls around in a heartbeat, ready to catch him, thinking that Rick is grabbing him for support. But Rick is steady on his feet, his eyes bright, a flirtatious smile playing on his lips.

Negan knows exactly what that look means, even if it’s been a while since he’s seen it. He lets Rick lead him the rest of the way up the stairs, lets Rick shove him up against the door of their room after he kicks it shut, lets his hands wander down to grab Rick’s ass and pull him closer as they kiss.

“Fuck me, baby,” Rick’s breath is hot against the shell of Negan’s ear, his words low and sultry and heading straight for Negan’s dick, which Rick reaches down to give a squeeze through the layers of his clothes. “Show me how much you want me.”

Negan does. He forces himself to go slow, be patient, because he doesn’t want it to be over, doesn’t know when it’s going to happen again. Rick’s bad days are getting more frequent, but he doesn’t want to think about that. All he wants to think about is how gorgeous Rick looks spread out underneath him, how sweetly he’s moaning while Negan fingers him open, how good he feels around Negan’s cock when he finally slides inside.

 _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ Negan whispers the words into Rick’s skin reverently as they move together, and Rick’s trying to say it back, but he’s too far gone, his words coming out as breathy groans against Negan’s throat.

Despite them taking their time, neither of them last for very long. After, they curl into each other, Rick’s head resting against Negan’s collarbone, Negan’s chin tucked on top of Rick’s head.

Rick manages to catch his breath after a few moments, presses soft kisses to Negan’s skin, finally finds his words.

“I love you, too.”

\--

Rick loses his hair completely after a month and a half of chemo. Negan, true to his word, takes Judith to the store to pick out an array of hats and bandanas for Rick to wear.

“Will daddy like this one?” She asks Negan as she holds out a baseball hat with- yep, Negan guessed it- a rainbow on the front. He smiles and crouches down to her level, ruffling her hair.

“You bet he will, angel. In fact, grab me one, too. We’re gonna match.”

They leave the store, bags full of colorful headwear in hand, and as Negan’s strapping Judith into her carseat, she insists that he put on his rainbow hat. She squeals with delight when he does.

When they return home, Judith proudly carries the bags inside and dumps them on Rick and Negan’s bed for Rick to see.

“Papa and I went shopping for you! I picked these ones out.” She starts sorting the hats by who picked what, and as Negan looks at the two piles of hats, he realizes that he didn’t do a much better job than Judith. He’d grabbed a couple of plain caps, and then a few that he’d just thought were funny, something to get Rick laughing. Between his joke hats and Judith’s array of rainbows and smiling ice cream cones and cartoon lizards, Rick’s going to look…ridiculous. He almost feels a rush of guilt for a moment, because the last thing Rick needs is to feel even more self-conscious, but he surprises Negan by laughing and scooping Judith into his arms and letting her place the rainbow baseball cap over his bald head.

“You and papa match, daddy!” Judith beams, her eyes shining with delight. She reaches out to Negan, and he joins them on the bed. “Take a picture! Take a picture with me!” She cries, grabbing for Negan's phone on the nightstand. Her tiny fingers fumble with the screen, and after a few blurry photos, Rick reaches over and taps the phone, taking the shot himself.

* * *

A few days later, Rick and Negan are sitting on one of the wooden benches in the hospital courtyard after a checkup, watching Judith toss pennies into the fountain across from them. Negan glances over at Rick and grins.

“I can’t fucking believe you wore that thing out of the house.” He reaches over and flicks the brim of Rick’s hat of the day- a black and white baseball cap with the words _Gone Squatchin’_ written in bold letters across the front, the silhouette of bigfoot in the center of the “o” in “gone”. It was one of Negan’s picks for him.

Rick shrugs and re-adjusts the cap. “Yeah, well. I figured you’d get a laugh out of it.”

Negan chuckles and scoots closer until they’re pressed together, thighs brushing. “Aw, Rick. You wore that thing for me? And here I was thinking you’d decided to join the noble quest to find the big furry guy.”

Rick rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s about as likely as me making a miraculous recovery.” He freezes beside Negan when he realizes what he said, but it’s too late. The words are out and the damage is done, the playful mood dissipating like smoke. “Sorry.” Rick says softly, reaching out to cover Negan’s hand with his own. Negan take a steadying breath, forces back the wavering in his voice.

“It’s fine.”

* * *

Four months in and Rick is getting weaker, the chemo draining the life from him even faster than the cancer.

“Many terminal patients choose to forego chemo once the symptoms start to worsen.” The doctor says.

“Maybe people find that they’d rather spend their remaining time with their families rather than struggling through chemo and the side-effects.”

“It’s not an easy decision to make.”

It's definitely not, but Rick makes the decision anyway. Says he’s tired of feeling sick and sleeping half the damn day and all the time he spends at the hospital. Says he wants to be home with Negan and Carl and Judith.

All Negan can hear is the doctor’s words, echoing in his skull painfully: “Remaining time.”

At best, Rick has four months left.

Rick starts to feel a little better without the chemo constantly making him sick, but his body is still weakening. Negan can hear him in the middle of the night, coughing in the bathroom, deep, wheezing, painful-sounding noises that make Negan grind his teeth. Negan always gets up to check on him, and Rick always waves him off, looking guilty, apologizing for waking him up and insisting he go back to bed. 

Negan never listens to him. He spends a lot of nights warming the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, rubbing circles over Rick's back until he wears himself out. He'll curl into Negan, head on his chest, drained and exhausted, and Negan will carry him back to bed.

One night, it’s worse than usual. Negan startles awake to Rick wheezing in the bathroom, and this time it sounds…wrong. Negan half-falls out of the bed, disentangling himself from the sheets as he goes, and bursts into the bathroom to find Rick hunched over on the floor. His breathing sounds horrible, his breaths short and squeaking out between little pained noises that he doesn’t seem to have any control over. Blood drips from his lips onto the floor, and when he lifts his head to look at Negan, his eyes are wide and red-rimmed and panicked.

“Ne-gan…I can’t…b- _breathe_ …”

Negan’s heart stops for a second and he has a terrifying moment of panic because this is it, _this is fucking it_.

“ _Negan,_ ” Rick’s voice comes out as a pained whine, and Negan springs into action, pulling Rick off the floor and into his arms. It’s getting easier and easier to carry him, and Negan likes to think it’s because he’s getting used to it, and not because of all the weight Rick’s lost since getting sick.

He carries Rick out to the car as fast as he can, straps him in, and whirls around to see Carl standing behind him, looking panicked and tired in flannel pajama pants, his long hair a bed-headed tangle.

“What’s going on? What’s wrong with him?” He sounds so young and terrifed, and it kills Negan a little.

“I don’t fucking know, kid. But he needs to get to the hospital, now.”

“I’m going with you.” He moves to get into the backseat, and Negan catches him.

“You can’t, Carl. I’m sorry, I’m really, really fucking sorry, but someone’s gotta watch Judith.”

“I’ll call Carol, she said anytime-”

Negan cuts him off with a firm shake of his head. “Carol's out of town, remember? Carl, please. Go back in the house, I’ve got to go. _Now_. I swear to God I’ll call you as soon as we get there. I’ll call you in the damn car if you want, but we have to leave.”

Carl backs off with great reluctance, goes back in the house, and Negan hates that he's leaving him there, but this is hardly the time to be worried about hurt feelings. He calls Carl and keeps him on speaker phone all the way to the hospital. He takes him off when they park with the promise that he’ll call back as soon as he knows anything.

Rick’s still wheezing and short of breath when Negan gets him out of the car, and his fingers immediately twist in the front of Negan’s shirt, so tight that Negan worries the fabric will rip. He lets out a pained whine against Negan’s chest, and the panicked knot in Negan’s gut tightens because he knows there’s no way in hell Rick would be acting like this unless he was in serious fucking pain.

He gets Rick to the emergency room and yells for a doctor, explains the situation in impatient shouts to long-suffering nurses, and when they whisk Rick away from him, he almost loses it. He lunges after him like a man possessed until a couple of nurses have to tell him to calm down and guide him to a seat with promises that they’ll update him about Rick soon.

He sits there, hunched over and breathing heavy, for the longest twenty minutes of his life before a young blonde nurse- one of the ones who had calmed his earlier tirade- comes out of the swinging double doors and gestures for him to follow her back.

“He’s fine, he had some excess fluid in his lungs, so we’re draining it. Happens a lot with this kind of cancer,” She looks up at him, her blue eyes wide and empathetic, “You’re his husband?”

Negan nods, unable to get his words out. Rick is fine. He’s _not_ , but for now, he’s fine. “How’d you know I’m his husband?”

“One of the other nurses filled me in. I’m new,” She explains. “Negan, right? I’m Beth.” They approach Rick’s room and Negan’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest when he sees Rick in the hospital bed, stuck full of tubes and wires, light amber liquid draining from a tube in his chest into a container on the wall. He looks so…fragile. He could tell that Rick had been losing weight, had noticed the dark shadows under his eyes, how tired he always looked, and yet, seeing him right now, it really hits him for the first time how much has been taken out of Rick these past several months.

“With how far advanced the cancer is, he’ll probably need to get the fluid levels in his lungs checked regularly from now on, just to be safe. It’s nothing unmanageable, but it’s better to keep an eye on it so that this doesn’t happen again. I’ve heard the buildup can get pretty painful-” Beth stops short when she sees the agony etched onto Negan’s face. “I’m sorry. I guess that’s not the kind of shit you want to hear, is it?”

If Negan wasn’t so preoccupied thinking about the little breathy gasps Rick was making on the way here and the way his fingers had knotted so tightly into Negan’s shirt, he may have laughed at the vulgarity coming out of the mouth of someone so wide-eyed and innocent looking. But all he could think of was how much pain Rick must have been in to act like that, and the thought makes him feel like there’s a block of lead in his gut.

“Can I see him? I mean…fucking go in there with him?” He turns to Beth and she sees the desperation on his face, hears it in his voice, and nods.

Rick is sleeping, so Negan pulls up a chair and covers Rick’s slack hand with his own, thumb finding the steady pulse as he pulls his phone out of his pocket to call Carl.

“Hey, kid. He’s fine. Had some fluid buildup in his lungs, they’re draining it now. No, I'm sorry, we have to stay here overnight. Uh…shit. I’ll call Carol first thing in the morning, ask if she can-no, wait she's out of town...shit. You know what, fuck it. You two can stay home tomorrow. Yeah, really. Well, your dad’s asleep, so he can’t say anything. It’ll be fine. What’s one fucking day, right? Everything okay there? You okay? Judith still sleeping? Good. Keep the doors locked, call me if you need anything. Hey, kid? Thanks for holding down the fort…call me first thing tomorrow when you wake up. Love you.”

There’s a small window of silence on the other line, but Carl returns Negan’s words.

* * *

Rick has to get a wheelchair. He doesn’t have to use it all the time, but he gets tired and out of breath quickly, and Negan can’t keep carrying him everywhere, as much as he would like to, as much as he genuinely doesn’t mind. He has flashbacks to being at this stage with Lucille, rolling her around everywhere. He tries not to dwell on it and fails miserably. 

Rick hates it. Hates it more than anything on the whole goddamned planet, and Negan hates making him use it, knows how it makes Rick feel: weak, helpless, _dying_. 

Rick lowers himself into the seat, a twisted expression of distaste on his face. “I hate this fucking thing.”

He seems angrier lately, frustrated. It probably has something to do with his complete dependency on Negan and Carl now. They’re the ones doing everything: the cooking, driving Judith to and from school, driving Rick to doctor’s appointments, helping him out of cars and up and down stairs. As a tried-and-true control freak, Rick’s having a lot of trouble letting go.

Judith comes running up to Rick, stops short when she sees him in the wheelchair, her face a picture of innocent confusion, and Negan sees Rick’s face go from frustrated to devastated in an instant.

She pads over in bare feet, tugs on Rick’s pants leg. “Daddy, why are you in a wheelchair? Do your legs not work anymore?” Her voice is wavering and full of fear, and Rick reaches down to smooth a hand over her hair.

“No, sweetheart, daddy’s legs are fine. See?” Rick wiggles his knees and uses one purple-socked foot to nudge her, making her giggle. “I just get tired and need to take a break sometimes, sweetheart.”

The worry on Judith’s face dissipates, and now she just looks curious. “Can I ride with you?” Her question is so naïve and sweet that it makes Rick break into a wide grin that mirrors the one on Negan’s own face.

“Of course, sweetheart. Jump up.” He holds his arms out and she climbs gleefully into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Push us, papa!” She cries, delighted.

The next half hour is spent by Negan zooming Rick and Judith around the first floor of the house, Judith’s shrieks of joyous laughter soon catching on until all three of them are laughing.

And then Rick’s laughter turns into wheezing coughs, and Negan stops the joyride.

Rick seemingly can’t stop coughing, and there are tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Negan scoops an upset Judith out of his lap and sets her on her feet.

“Daddy?” She asks, scared again.

“Rick?” Negan leans down and rubs his back. After a minute, the coughing trickles off. Rick is hunched over, looking at his hands. Judith clings to Negan’s leg.

“No more rides?” She asks.

Negan shakes his head, eyes glued to Rick. “Not today, angel.”

* * *

Rick is especially irritable for the next week. Negan is late to pick up Judith from school one day, and he gets a ten-minute lecture.

“You have to be responsible for once in your fucking life, Negan!”

“Judith needs stability right now, she doesn’t need to worry about whether you’ve forgotten about her!”

“I wish I could do it myself, but I can’t! You have to step up and act like a parent, not their friend.”

There’s heat behind his words, and Negan knows that it’s not _actually_ directed at him, that it’s Rick’s frustration with the whole situation, with himself and his limitations, but it still stings.

Rick wakes up from a nap to discover Carl giving Judith rides around the house with the wheelchair, and lays into him, too. Negan hears them from upstairs and comes down to find Rick leaning heavily on the counter, red-faced with anger.

“It’s not a toy!”

“You should know better-”

“Is this all some big game to you?”

At that last one, Carl looks genuinely hurt, and Negan intervenes.

“Okay, Rick. C’mon.” He moves to escort him out of the room, and Rick jerks away.

“Don’t you dare undermine me, Negan! I’m their father, and I’m fucking sick of you playing _fun dad_ with them while I’m the one cleaning up your mess!”

Negan’s jaw clenches. “Carl, take Judith upstairs, please.”

Carl quickly obeys, and Negan turns back to a fuming Rick.

“You got something you wanna get off your chest, Rick? That’s fine by me, I can take it, but don’t do this shit in front of them.”

“Don’t act like you’re so fucking mature, Negan!”

“I’m not the one yelling at everyone and swearing in front of Judith, Rick!”

Rick barks a mean laugh. “Right, because you’ve never sworn in front of my kids before, Negan.”

A little part of Negan breaks, all the anger in him draining and being rapidly replaced with hurt, and it takes everything he has not to start crying. “ _Our_ kids, Rick,” He says softly.

Rick’s face softens, just a fraction, but he doesn’t respond, just avoids Negan’s eyes, staring intensely at the kitchen countertop. After a long stretch of silence, he lets go of the counter and slumps toward the living room, curling up on the couch. Negan breathes out, decides to give him some space.

That night, he’s sure that Rick is planning on sleeping downstairs until he hobbles into their room, assisted by Carl. Negan’s reading in bed, glasses on, and looks up to see them in the doorway. Rick dips his head, mumbles a thank you to his son, and Carl leaves them, closing the door behind himself.

Rick lingers at the foot of the bed, and it takes him a second to work his eyes up to meet Negan’s.

“I’m sorry. About earlier. I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t have yelled in front of the kids. In front of _our_ kids.” He emphasizes the word and Negan hears the apology there, and even though he already knew that Rick hadn’t meant anything by what he said earlier, it means the world to hear it anyway. Negan smiles and pats the bed beside him, and Rick curls up against him, head on his shoulder, arm around him, his hand on Negan’s face tracing the frame of his glasses. Negan pulls him in tighter.

“I’m sorry, too. Shouldn’t have tried to shut you down like that in front of them.”

“You just didn’t want them to see us fighting. It’s okay. You did the right thing. I’ve just been so…pissed off, at everything. I can’t do anything myself, can’t be the father I was, the husband I was-” Negan cuts him off.

“Fuck that, Rick. You’re the same father you were before, the same husband you were before. Yeah, you need some help, but that’s fine. That’s what we’re here for. Carl and I don’t mind. I just…I wish I could help you deal with it. I don’t know how to fucking help you, and it kills me.”

Rick sits up so that they’re facing each other, Rick propped up on his elbow. “You know how to help me. You do. You help me every second you’re with me.” He leans over Negan, bringing their lips together in a slow kiss that Negan can’t help but groan into when it lingers. It’s been too long, way too damn long. He feels Rick’s grin against his lips. “Somethin’ wrong, Negan?” He teases, and Negan grabs Rick’s hips in response, rolling him onto his back and hitching his leg up so Negan can settle in between them. He grins devilishly down at Rick’s surprised face.

“Not at all, baby. In fact, I just thought of a great fucking way to relieve all that frustration of yours.”

Rick’s smile falters a bit, regret in his eyes. “Negan…I-I want to, believe me, I do, but I’m so exhausted, I don’t think I’ll be able to do much-” Negan silences him with a quick kiss.

“Baby, you won’t have to do a single goddamn thing. I’ll take care of you. If you want me to.”

Rick looks torn, bites his lip. “I…I want you to. You have no idea how much I do. I just don’t want you to feel- I don’t want to just do this for me and not get anything-”

“Rick, believe me, it would be my absolute goddamn pleasure to suck you off right now. I miss having that thick cock of yours in my mouth.” Rick’s face flushes, and Negan grins broadly, “Let me do this for you.”

Rick does let him, and while it doesn’t last nearly long enough, it’s more than enough to wear Rick out, leaving him sweating and panting against the pillows, his fingers tangled in Negan’s hair.

Negan kisses up his spent body afterwards, lips wandering over the too-deep valleys between Rick’s ribs and over his collarbones that are definitely more pronounced than they used to be. He tries not to think about that as their lips meet in an open kiss that lets Rick taste himself on Negan’s tongue. Rick nips at Negan’s chin, teeth scraping skin and scruff. “I ever mentioned that I love it when you suck me off with those glasses on?” Negan chuckles and lets his hands wander over Rick’s body, tracing the lines of his back and the curve of his ass.

“Hmm. You know, it’s entirely fucking possible, Rick, but I think you could stand to mention it more often.”

Rick hums in amusement and his hand trails down Negan’s chest, fingertips dipping torturously into the front of his boxers. “Maybe I should just show you how much I like it?”

“Ri- _Rick_ , you don’t have to-” The rest of Negan’s words are lost as Rick’s hand slides lower, and Negan thinks he gets a pretty good idea of just how much Rick likes it.

* * *

Six months in, Rick can’t make the climb upstairs anymore. Not to their shared bed, not to say goodnight to Carl, not to read stories to Judith before she falls asleep. Negan sees the light leave Rick’s eyes when it happens, and he finds that it breaks his heart in an entirely new way. Negan carries him up the stairs every night so they can be together, because there’s no fucking way he’s going to let the man he loves sleep alone on the couch. Rick clings to him, face buried in his chest. Negan’s terrified that Rick’s going to resent him, that his mind is going to start connecting the frustration he feels with not walking to the way Negan has to carry him, that he’s going to lash out. And he couldn’t blame him if he did, wouldn’t mind if Rick vented some of his crippling agitation, but he doesn’t. He’s just tired. He shuffles with Negan’s help from room to room, insistent that he’s going to keep saying goodnight to his kids even if the short walk leaves him out of breath by the time they reach their bed. Rick takes to saying goodnight to Negan too before he drifts off. Every night, the same last words to both Negan and their children: “Goodnight, I love you.”

Negan’s lying curled around Rick one night, head resting on his shoulder and listening to his labored breathing, when it hits him.

_He wants to make sure he says goodbye in case he doesn’t wake up._

* * *

Rick has good days and bad ones, and it’s scary how quickly one can become the other. On Rick’s last day at home, it starts off as a good day. Rick wakes up in a good mood, kissing and nuzzling at Negan as they shower together. Rick tires of standing quickly and it becomes a bath, both of them sinking into the tub and leaning into each other, lazily pressing loving kisses to wet skin.

Rick shuffles into the kid’s bedrooms to wake them up, insisting that they have a day together. Says he wants to go to the park. Judith is already awake, sitting on her bedroom floor reading a picture book. Carl grumpily awakens at ten-thirty am on a Saturday despite the fact that he usually sleeps until at least noon on the weekends.

“Wake up, Carl,” Rick says, shaking his son’s shoulder as Negan looks on from where he’s leaning against the doorframe. “Family day. Negan’s gonna make pancakes.”

Negan chuckles low in his throat. “Is that so, baby?”

Rick gives him a cocky smirk. “Sure is.”

Negan makes the pancakes.

It's a nice morning, all of them around the table, Judith insisting that Negan make her blueberry pancakes have smiley faces. One moment, everything is calm- Carl’s scarfing down a stack of chocolate chip pancakes drenched in syrup, Judith’s asking when they’re going to go to the park, Negan’s showing off his skills on the skillet, Rick laughing as he does so.

And the next moment, the kitchen is anything but calm. Rick’s laughter turns to wheezing, which turns to choking, and the next thing Negan knows, Rick’s on the floor, gasping for air, tears streaming down his face. Negan drops the skillet back on the stovetop, dives to the floor, cradles Rick in his arms, his wide, panicked eyes reflected in Rick’s own.

“Baby? _Baby?_ ” Negan hears how his voice is shooting up octaves, and Judith starts crying in the background. Rick’s fingers wind tightly into the front of Negan’s shirt, and there’s real fear in his eyes as he gasps.

“Negan! What do we- is he-” Carl’s voice sounds far away even though Negan knows the boy is standing right above him.

“Call an ambulance. Now!”

* * *

Rick, unable to breathe on his own anymore, has to stay in the hospital around the clock. It’s hard on all of them, and Judith cries every night when visiting hours are over and they’re forced to leave without her father. Negan wants to cry, too, but he doesn’t not until Rick and the kids can’t see. He lays alone in his and Rick’s bed, doesn’t sleep well. He keeps his phone right beside him, volume all the way up, waiting on a call that he never wants to receive.

They’re at the hospital every day, keeping Rick company, trying to make believe that nothing has changed. Negan and Carl put on brave faces, tell Rick that everything is okay, that they’re okay. They don’t mention how Judith wakes up crying and missing him. They don’t mention how Carl’s grades have been dropping and he now needs a tutor in math. Negan doesn’t mention how he can’t sleep without feeling Rick’s pulse under his fingertips, letting him know that he’s still alive.

* * *

“If you could take it back, would you? If you knew how this was going to end when you first met me- if you could go back and stop yourself- would you?” Rick asks one day when the kids are out of the room, getting a snack in the hospital cafeteria. Negan’s lower lip trembles and his heart aches and the pain of knowing that Rick has considered that possibility for even a second is unbearable.

“No. Not for a fucking second, Rick. I’d choose you all over again. In any fucking life, I’d choose you every time, no matter how it ends.” He crawls into the hospital bed beside Rick, avoiding tubes and wires, and Rick shakes and clutches at his clothes and curls into him. “I love you. I love you so fucking much, Rick. Don’t you ever fucking think otherwise. Not for one goddamned minute. Every second I’ve gotten to spend with you has been worth it, it’s been worth it a million fucking times over.” Tears leak out of him, wetting Rick’s hair, and when Carl walks in ten minutes later, hand in hand with Judith, and sees them together, he locks eyes with Negan, nods silently, and gives them some time.

“C’mon, Judy. Dad and Negan are gonna talk a little while, okay? Boring grownup stuff, yuck. You wouldn’t like it, I promise. Let’s go see if the nurse who spins you in the chair is still here.”

* * *

A week after that incident, they’re at the hospital again, and Rick’s in and out of consciousness. He’s only semi-lucid when he’s awake, aware of Negan and Carl and Judith crowded around his bed, but not quite all there. His blue eyes are unfocused, and Negan kisses him over and over, his hands, his forehead, his lips, not caring that the kids are right there and Carl’s possibly getting grossed out seeing his parents like that.

Then again, maybe he doesn’t care. He’s old enough to understand why Negan’s so desperate and teary-eyed.

Rick squeezes Carl and Negan’s hands, strokes Judith’s hair. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” He mumbles the words over and over, a mantra, a prayer. They say it back each time.

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

Negan sees it coming from miles away when Rick slips out of consciousness completely, but it doesn’t cushion the blow even slightly, terror still dropping in his stomach like a sinking stone. His fingers are on Rick’s pulse, counting in time with the beeping of the monitor.

He feels when it slows down.

He feels when it stops altogether.

The room is loud when it happens, the deafening long beep of the monitor as Rick flatlines, Judith’s confused sobbing, Carl’s near-hyperventilating, the nurses rushing in to try to help. Negan can’t hear any of it. All he hears is the blood rushing in his ears, the _thump-thump_ sound of his own heartbeat, and he wants to believe it’s Rick’s. Because the world only makes sense if it is.

Sound comes back all at once as one of the nurses tries, gently, to get him to move away from Rick’s bed, and he yells, the desperate cries of a broken man.

“I’m not fucking leaving him! Get the fuck away! Fucking- fucking fix him, fucking wake him up, fucking- fuck-” He stumbles back onto the floor and slumps against the wall, buries his face in his arms and sobs, not caring that the kids are right fucking there because he can’t be strong for them, not now, not anymore. His whole body quakes and he pulls at his hair, wanting something, anything to distract from the gaping cavern that’s opened up in the center of his chest. His body feels like a black hole, collapsing in on itself, and it sucks the kids in. Judith's pulling at his shirtsleeve as she cries, Carl's sinking to the floor beside him, trembling, so lost that he’s willing to be weak in front of Negan. Negan puts a hand on his shoulder, and that’s all he can manage. His body is lead, dead weight, trying to sink into the hospital floor like it’s sand.

* * *

The funeral is a modest affair. The whole sheriff station shows up, Shane leading the pack, pulling Carl into a fierce hug and laying a hand on Negan’s shoulder.

“Man, I’m…I’m so fucking sorry-” Negan shakes his head, because he can’t hear it, and Shane nods, takes a seat in one of the pews. Negan is stiff and awkward in his suit, the only one he owns. He's only worn it for a handful of things-a couple weddings, a fundraising gala the Sheriff's department held that he'd attended with Rick. Lucille's funeral. He tugs at the collar, feeling like he can’t breathe quite right. He wants to pull off the jacket, loosen the tie. Wants to go home, put on the pair of Rick’s sweatpants that he’s been wearing for the past week. Judith and Carl sit beside him, somber and respectful. Negan feels like a child, restless and squirming in his seat, his eyes burning.

He knows he looks like an absolute mess by the time he’s standing at the podium for his eulogy. He doesn’t have cards, no prepared speech. He’s never been the best with words, but he knows that Rick Grimes is a subject on which he needs no preparation to speak.

“Rick was…” Sweat rolls down the side of his face, and he can feel it running down his neck and back and dampening the armpits of his dress shirt. He glances to his right, at the casket, at Rick’s waxy, color-drained corpse, and almost heaves then and there. He swallows back bile. “He was my…my husband. The best fucking- _shit_ \- fucking husband…the best _man_ I ever fucking knew-” he knows he shouldn’t be swearing in a goddamned church where there are children and little old ladies and conservative family members present, but he can’t stop himself. He wants to do this right, to give Rick the eulogy he deserves, but his throat feels swollen and thick, his tongue heavy. He swallows and swallows, can’t get the words out, feels wetness streaming down his face, into his mouth. It keeps coming, and he’s shaking and hiccupping around his words, and then Carl’s hands are on his arm, walking him off the stage as he makes a goddamned fool of himself. He crumbles into himself on the pew, hunched over, leaking tears and snot and making a mess of his jacket sleeves.

_Rick deserves more than that._

He hurls the words at himself over and over again, hoping the mental abuse will make him shape up. It doesn’t. He can’t look up for the rest of the funeral.

* * *

Negan can’t leave the house. He can’t. The first week, it’s understandable. Carl nods, helps get Judith fed and bathed. Negan sits on the floor of his and Rick’s room, staring at his wedding ring. It doesn’t make sense on its own, he thinks. It’s meant to be a matched pair. It’s not meant to be alone, but he’s not about to take it off. He doesn’t think he’ll ever want to. It would feel like a betrayal. He cradles his left hand like it’s something precious, remembers when Rick first slid it onto his finger on their wedding day. Trembling fingers and matching black tuxedos, eyes wet. Tears drip into his palm.

* * *

It gets bad one night, around three in the morning, both of the kids asleep in their beds. Negan’s just gotten done putting Judith back to sleep after she woke up crying and asking for Rick, and he’s now on the floor next to the dresser. He scrolls through the photos in his phone, tears blurring his vision, and he blinks them away, lets them roll silently down his face as he looks.

Rick, playing a game with Carl on his phone, hooked up to an IV.

Rick, his smiling face smushed between Negan’s and Judith’s, he and Negan wearing matching rainbow caps.

There are more. Negan’s phone is filled with them. Picture after picture of Rick from before and after diagnosis. He’s not sure which hurts worse. His whole body radiates pain each time he scrolls to a new one.

Rick, dressed to the nines in a smart blue suit for a police gala he and Negan attended two autumns ago.

Rick, naked and flushed atop rumpled white sheets that Negan knows to be those from the hotel they stayed at on their honeymoon.

Rick, squinting and smiling lopsidedly at the camera in a self-shot he’d sent Negan early on in their relationship.

Negan scrolls and scrolls until he reaches the end of the roll. There’s a pretty big time jump between the first pictures on his phone and the more recent ones. The first ones are all from six years ago, before Rick. There’s only a handful of them, since Negan’s been through a few phones since then and most of his pictures have been saved elsewhere, but he’d kept a few of his favorites, ones he couldn't bear to delete. Ones of Lucille, before she’d gotten sick. The juxtaposition of pain, of scrolling through photos and seeing Rick in one and then Lucille in the next, is too much for him to handle. He drops the phone onto the floor, shaking.

Rick and Lucille. Lucille and Rick. Outside of them, his life amounts to a big, fat _nothing_. He stands up, paces the floor, his thoughts consuming and desolate.

_Nothing. Nothing without them, no reason to keep going._

Rick’s revolver, the one he’d never gotten the chance to return to the station, is buried in the top drawer of his dresser. On impulse, Negan pulls it out. It’s unloaded, the safety on, as it always was when Rick brought it home, but there’s a box of bullets nestled under pairs of socks beside it. Negan stares at it. It feels heavier than it actually is. And, for a moment, he considers it.

_The kids. Our kids. Don't you fucking dare leave them alone._

Rick’s voice rings through his head, so clear that he drops the gun and it clatters to the floor. Negan’s hands and lip tremble. He stares at it for a long moment before grabbing it again and shoving it back into the drawer, suddenly terrified of what he’d been thinking. He grabs the box of bullets before closing the drawer and goes downstairs, wanders outside to the trashcan, and drops them inside.

* * *

After two weeks, Carl’s had it. Carol has had to step up, has been more than generous with her time by taking the kids to school and picking them up, bringing casseroles alongside her condolences. Carl has to answer the door, because Negan can’t leave his room. Carl has to do a lot of things, and Negan gets to hear about it one night when Negan discovers that they have no edible food left in the house.

“How do we not have any fucking milk?” Negan grumbles, pawing through the fridge. He reaches for a beer that’s shoved way in the back, and Carl rips it out of his hand.

“Are you fucking kidding me? It’s because you haven’t gone to the store in two weeks! What kind of fucking parent are you?” Carl screams. “We lost him too, you know. He was our dad! You don’t get to act like this, be a big fucking baby while I take care of Judith. He was _my dad!”_ Carl throws the beer bottle against the wall and it shatters, a dripping mess of sticky alcohol and glass on the kitchen floor. Judith begins to fuss, seated at the kitchen table, and Carl is shaking with rage, and Negan is flooded with guilt.

“I’m sorry, fuck, I’m fucking sorry-” He starts, reaching out to Carl, but the kid wrenches away, eyes spitting fire.

“I don’t fucking care if you’re sorry! Take care of us! You think dad would be proud of you, crying by yourself all day while me and Judith fend for ourselves? He’d be really fucking disappointed. You’re supposed to take care of us, not the other way around.”

Carl’s words cut deep, right to Negan’s core, and he’s floored, rooted to the spot as the kid storms upstairs and slams his bedroom door. Negan gives himself a moment, one last brief, fleeting moment, and then he takes a shuddering breath and forces himself to take steps, walk over to Judith.

“Shh, shh, darlin’. I’m sorry. Papa’s sorry.” He soothes, gathering her into his arms and rocking her. “I haven’t been a very good papa. I’m so sorry, darlin’. I am. I’m gonna be better. I promise.”

Judith sniffles into his shirt. “I mi-miss daddy,” she whimpers, her little fists bunched into his shirt. Negan holds her a little closer at that.

“I know, sweetheart,” He whispers, voice breaking. “I know. I miss him, too.”

Negan puts on a movie for Judith and orders a couple of pizzas. Gets a whole pie with sausage and extra pepperoni and leaves it outside Carl’s door with a knock.

“Delivery, kid.”

Carl doesn’t come out right away, but when Negan goes to check on him before going to bed, the box is on his desk, half the slices gone.

“I’m sorry.” Negan says, knowing it’s not nearly enough. “I’ve been a shitty fucking parent, I know that. Of course I fucking know that. You kids deserve better. You deserve your dad. But I’m…I’m gonna be here, okay? I’m gonna be better. I’m gonna fucking be the man he would have wanted me to be. The father you kids need. I fucking promise you, Carl. I’m sorry.”

Carl doesn’t meet his eyes, but he nods. “Thanks for the pizza.”

It’s something.

* * *

It takes Negan a month, and a lot of questioning from Carl and Judith, but they finally go visit Rick’s grave, flowers in hand. Light blue forget-me-nots, the color of Rick’s eyes. Carl and Judith lay them up against the headstone that reads _Rick Grimes, beloved father and husband_. Negan’s eyes get misty, and he watches as the kids brush fingers against the headstone. Carl tells Judith why they’re here, tells her that she can talk to Rick if she wants. She babbles, says that she misses him, says that papa’s been wearing his shirts. When Carl leads her back to where Negan is standing, her lower lip is trembling. Negan walks her around the cemetery so Carl can have some alone time. When he circles back to Rick’s grave, Carl’s eyes are red-rimmed and watery.

“Do you…do you want a minute?” He asks, and Negan nods, passing Judith to him. Carl bounces her on his hip as he walks away, and Negan takes a slow, shaky breath before kneeling down in the dirt.

“Fuck,” He mumbles, pressing his fingers into the corners of his eyes. “Fuck, Rick. I really…I really fucking miss you. I miss you so fucking much, baby.” He dips his head, and then the words come to him, the ones he should have said at the funeral. But maybe it’s better like this, he thinks. Just him and Rick. The words are personal, not meant for the ears of work friends and casual acquaintances and distant relatives who refused to come to their wedding because they disapproved of two men tying the knot.

“You and Lucille- you gave me the best fucking years of my life, you know that? And that’s…that’s fucking hard to accept, that the best years of your life are behind you. And I know they are, Rick. And maybe that’s alright, you know? I mean, everyone gets to that point eventually, where their best days are all behind them, they just don’t usually _know_ like this. I just…I just thought it’d be a hell of a lot further down the road, Rick. I saw you and me, all old and grey and wrinkled, nuts down to our knees, still looking ahead together. I wanted that, with you. And I’m not- I’m not saying there still won’t be good years. I’ll get to watch the kids- _our_ kids- grow up, send Carl off to college, teach Judith how to drive-” His voice cracks painfully, hot tears spilling down the sides of his face.

“ _Fuck_. Rick, you _asshole_. You should have fucking been here for it all, baby. It’s gonna be so fucking hard without you here to knock me on my ass every now and then. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, being a parent. But you knew that. I just…I want to do a good fucking job for them, Rick. For them, and for you. I want you up there looking down on me raising our kids and thinking, ‘Wow, that son of a bitch is doing an okay job’.” He cracks a watery smile.

“Your kids deserve to have you here, Rick. I’m a fucking mess. I can barely take care of myself. You know how I was, after Lucille…shit. You probably fucking saved my life, and now the only thing keeping me going is knowing that I can’t leave Carl and Judith. I may be a sorry-ass excuse for a dad, but fuck if I’m gonna leave them high and dry. But I wish it was me, Rick. I wish it was me down there, and maybe it’s for selfish reasons, too. Maybe it’s because the thought of going another day without you here makes me want to eat a fucking bullet. But your kids deserve you here, too.”

He takes a deep, shaky breath, wipes at his eyes even though he knows the waterworks are just going to keep coming.

“I promise I won’t leave, though. I swear to you, Rick, these kids are gonna be my whole goddamn world. I’m gonna raise them right, I’m gonna make you fucking proud. I promise you, baby.”

Negan feels a hand on his shoulder, tilts his head up to see Carl standing behind him. His words are gone, but he reaches up, covers Carl’s hand with his own and squeezes, tries to convey everything he should be saying into the gesture: _I’m sorry. I’m going to be better._

Carl nods like he understands. “We’re gonna go back to the car. Judith’s starting to fall asleep.”

Negan wipes at his face. “Got it, kid. I’ll be right there.”

He takes one last look at Rick’s grave before pushing to his feet.

“I’m never going to fucking forget you, Rick. I’ll always remember us, the way we were. I fucking love you. I hope you and Lucille are up there together, talking shit about me. I think you would've liked each other.”

Negan kisses two fingers, brushes them over the _husband_ part of the epitaph, and straightens up, making his way back to the car when Carl and Judith are waiting for him. He’s making spaghetti tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a million to anyone who read this! 
> 
> The Gone Squatchin' hat is Metalbutter's fault, really.


	3. Alternate (Happy) Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YIKES so it's been a while because I'm forgetful, but I told emmamaus that I'd write a happy miraculous recovery ending, so here we are! 
> 
> (sorry it took so ridiculously long to get around to!)

Four months into treatment, Rick should, objectively, be getting worse. And in some ways, he is: the chemo is draining the life from him seemingly faster than the cancer can. But on the days when he’s not at the hospital, when he’s not pumped so full of drugs that it’s all he can do not to spend the day curled into himself on the edge of the bed, retching periodically into the wastebasket on the floor, he almost seems like himself again. Maybe Negan’s imagining it- he has to keep telling himself that, that it’s all in his head, a cruel product of his own wishful thinking- but he swears that Rick’s not wheezing as much, that he sleeps more soundly, his painful chest-ripping coughs not wearing him down and keeping him awake half the night.

Negan asks him every single day: _How do you feel, baby? Do you need help with this? Do you need to lie down? The doctor said you’d start getting short of breath-_

“I don’t…I’m okay, Negan,” Rick reassures him, and the truth of the statement seems to confound him. “I’m feelin’ alright. It’s not that bad yet.”

Negan always clings close to Rick at the checkups- his hatred for hospitals has only intensified over the last several months, almost to the point of phobia. He tries his best to keep it from Rick, since _he’s_ not the one who’s sick, after all, but he knows that he can tell. Today, it’s bad- he spends the hour leading up to the appointment nervously pacing the house, mood foul, trying to isolate himself from Rick and the kids so that he doesn’t end up snapping at them over some small thing. His hands are clammy, palms itchy, and he keeps rubbing them over the thighs of his jeans, scratching his nails down the rough fabric to distract himself.

He’s fucking terrified that one of these appointments will see Rick not coming back home with him. That there will be some reason for him to stay overnight, and then he’ll just get worse and worse until he never ends up coming back and Negan will have to scrounge and scrape to remember their last moments at home together.

He’s shaking when they finally get in the car, and Rick, considerate as he is, doesn’t mention it until they’ve dropped Carl and Judith off at Carol’s house. Negan’s parked out front on the curb, watching as Rick walks down the driveway and back to the car.

He couldn’t make himself get out, not even to say a friendly hello and thank you to Carol. He’s worried that if he does, he won’t be able to make himself get back in the car and actually _go_.

He hesitates, knuckles white where he’s gripping the steering wheel, and Rick’s hand comes up to cover his own, squeezing lightly. Negan stares at Rick's hand, suddenly struck by how even this part of him looks different. His bones seem a bit more prominent, the digits slimmer, and where there used to sparse hair there’s just smooth, pale flesh.

He’d never given it much thought before, but he suddenly misses Rick’s hair- all of it, the long curling locks that Negan would tug on playfully, the light smattering across his chest that Negan would rub his face against, the coarse curls his cock was nestled in that would tickle his nose when he took Rick all the way down his throat, the sparse wiry ones on his thighs that he would feel against his skin when he had Rick on his back with his legs locked tight around Negan’s waist.

“Baby,” Rick says gently, “do you want me to drive?”

He means so well, Negan knows. Rick is a martyr to his core, always more worried about Negan and Carl and Judith than he is about himself. Right now, that only makes him feel worse, utterly useless and selfish.

“ _No_ ,” he snaps, a little more sharply than he intended. “I can fucking drive.”

Rick pulls his hand back, and shame nearly crushes Negan because _Rick_ is the absolute last person he needs to be taking his frustration out on. He catches Rick’s hand between his own before he can pull away completely, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to the palm, kneading the cold fingers. “I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry, Rick.”

He knows Rick hears the sorrowful break in his voice, the way his words come out jagged and painful. He laces his fingers through Negan’s own. “I know. It’s okay. It is. Let’s just go, Negan. Get it over with.”

* * *

They wait in Doctor Carson’s office like they always do after Rick’s been poked and prodded and scanned. Negan keeps subtly inching his chair closer to Rick’s, hating the six-inch gap between them. If it was up to him, Rick would be in his lap, in his arms at all times. Every second they’re not touching seems like an utter and complete waste.

“Negan,” Rick whispers, even though it’s just them in the room. “The hell are you doin’?”

“Too fuckin’ far away, Rick.” Negan scoots his chair closer, the wooden arms now bumping, and Rick laughs under his breath.

“You big sap,” He coos, fingers running up and down Negan’s arm. When Carson walks in, they’re making puppy-dog eyes at each other, but Negan doesn’t give a fraction of a shit. He barely looks at the man as he settles in across from them, letting Rick handle the talking like he normally does.

“The x-ray of your chest,” he hears the doctor say, “it’s…it’s remarkable. I don’t want to say anything too soon, but the masses in your lungs, they’re definitely shrinking. I know you reported that you were having an easier time breathing, but this- I wasn’t expecting to see this-”

Negan’s head whips to the side so quickly he nearly gives himself whiplash. “What the fuck? What do you mean- you- he’s…it’s _working_?” He can’t let himself hope. He can’t, he can’t-

“It looks to be that way. Now, I don’t want you to hear me wrong, this could just be the immediate effects of the chemo, his body may begin to resist the treatment or worsen again, but right now- the chemo is working.”

Rick asks a lot of questions, ones that Negan can’t think enough to get out for himself.

Negan can’t think of anything, _anything_ , except for the doctor’s parting words: _things are looking up right now. We’ll continue to monitor you very closely, and of course you’ll need to stick with the chemotherapy, but as is is…this is a good sign. A very good sign._

Negan all but scoops Rick into his arms and carries him out of Carson’s office, sweeps him off his feet and buries his face into Rick’s neck, laughing and crying and hiccupping through the tears as Rick clings to him. “Negan- _Negan_ , watch out…! Sorry, ma’am. Negan, baby, you gotta put me down-”

But he’s laughing too, giddy and elated like he hasn’t been in so long. Negan tries to be good, waits until they’re out in the parking garage and he can back Rick up against the side of the car to kiss him, wet with happy tears.

* * *

Rick’s scared to tell Carl, suggests waiting. And Negan gets it, he does- this isn’t a promise. This isn’t a recovery, or a guarantee, or a light at the end of the tunnel. It’s a maybe, and Rick doesn’t want to get their son’s hopes up on a _maybe_.

In the end, they decide on a half-truth.

“The appointment went well. I’m definitely not getting any worse.”

Carl nods, takes it all in stride, stronger than he should have to be.

The next appointment, though, when they get more good news, when Rick’s still improving? Even Rick can’t hold it back. They come home smiling, and when they tell Carl, the boy’s face shifts through so many emotions at once that Negan almost laughs. It’s a rare thing, he thinks, to see that much raw, bald emotion laid bare in the face of a teenage boy.

They take the whole family out for ice cream to celebrate good news. Judith’s strawberry cone is laden with sprinkles that she keeps spilling onto her dress, and Carl can’s stop smiling, and he doesn’t complain for a second about his parents being _sappy and gross_  like he usually would when Negan insists on feeding Rick bites of hot fudge sundae and kissing away the chocolate smudged on his lower lip.

* * *

The word _remission_ is the sweetest, most beautiful word that Negan thinks he’s ever heard beside Rick’s own name. When it comes from Doctor Carson’s lips, he breaks down weeping, his ability to give a fuck long since gone, and he pulls Rick into his lap like he always wanted to in the damned office, kissing him over and over again because this is it, this really is _it_.

* * *

No evidence of disease. That’s what Carson calls it. Can’t officially use the term _cancer-free_ until so many years have passed without a relapse, but as far as they can tell? Rick’s got a clean bill of health.

He stopped chemo a while ago, and his hair has been growing back. It’s shorter still than Negan’s ever seen it in person. He looks forward to the day when those long curls are back at the nape of Rick’s neck, begging to be played with, but he thinks Rick looks damned beautiful as he is right now- short, wavy chestnut hair that’s graying at the temples, his stubble peppery and rough against Negan’s palm. Negan can’t stop touching him, running his fingers through the curls on his thighs and around his cock as they lie in bed together.

Rick is warm and solid against him, finally gaining back some of the weight he’d lost during treatment. Negan can’t see his ribs anymore when he undresses, and counts that as a solid win. He looks healthy, _is_ healthy, and Negan's determined to never take that for granted again, not for a fucking second.

He counts everything as a win these days. Rick is alive, here to stay, and when he looks up at Negan, all bright blue eyes and warmth that makes Negan feel like he’s at home wherever they are together, he can’t help but be grateful for every second chance they’ve been given.

**Author's Note:**

> Me: I hate major character death  
> Also me: Writes another major character death fic


End file.
